Ancient You

There’s nothing sacred in ancient texts

No revelations dawn in east—or west

No heaven-sent virtue in any One

Even the Guide Star appears to run

We worship age; we worship reason

We worship ages that had their season

We follow (wo)men—and convinced we see

We’ve cornered “truth” conveniently

Intuition overridden, mind set to rest

Our life—a slumber—not what we suggest

As I stand for another—or another’s perfect tome

Righteously I pose—I grope as I build my master’s throne

A throne…

A throne to sancti-justify

A throne to stand behind

That throne a proxy for my life

My master not my mind.

Faithful and enduring whisper

As always it has been

Appeals yet in darkest hours

When I listen past the din

Never will it deign to beg or raise its sovereign voice

Its native way and infinite means my ready natural source

And should I choose to see, today, my origin —past the flesh

I’d take possession of my life and live as I was meant.

—Ron Renaud